I Am Grey

by Washington, Jane

  “Bout time, chicas.” Marcus hurried over to us, grabbed the grocery bags without ceremony, and shooed us away.

  I turned to Jean. We smiled at each other, and then took seats at the island counter to watch Marcus.

  “What are you making?” I asked.

  He mumbled something in reply, cracking an egg against the counter and emptying it into a bowl. He started to whisk, still bent over a cookbook, before straightening and glancing over at me.

  “Profiteroles,” he answered, still whisking.

  “How many?” Jean prompted, her smile stretching a little wider.

  He rolled his eyes. “Enough for everyone, and then some. So, what’s new, Grey? You look like you slept at the beach.”

  “Thanks,” I said, leaning back on my stool to stretch. My whole body was aching.

  “Want some coffee?” He was smiling.

  “Yes, please.”

  “Okay.” He set the bowl on the counter and moved to the stove, igniting the burner under the kettle. “We only have instant, that okay?”

  “My fancy palate can suffer for a day.” In truth, I didn’t even drink coffee, but I figured it would do more good than harm.

  Marcus grinned as he went about the motions of making us all coffee. I watched him work, taking in his tattoos and the messy style of his short, black hair. His knuckles were bruised. It made me sad, but I wasn’t sure why.

  After drinking my coffee, which had been surprisingly good, Jean showed me to the bathroom and left me to shower. I avoided the mirror, stripping off my clothes and ducking under the steaming water. I wanted it to purify me, somehow. I wanted to wash away the mistakes that had led up to Duke burning down my aunt and uncle’s RV. I wanted to wash him away, and the feeling of vengeance that crept up on me whenever his face floated through my mind.

  I had been apathetic toward Duke for so long, but whatever barrier had been holding in my emotion had shattered, and now I held nothing but hate. I closed my eyes, leaning my head against the warm tiles and allowing my arms to hang limply at my sides. I wished I could curl up on the shower floor and go to sleep ...

  The pad of my thumb slipped over the lighter track, feeling the texture, wanting to press down, to bring flame to life. I stroked it, and then, finally, click.

  Fire.

  I smiled as I tossed it toward the steps, watching the sticky gasoline drip to the concrete platform. This was what I wanted, this was what I deserved. Complete and utter destruction.

  I jerked awake at the sound of banging on the bathroom door. I pushed away from the wall, my hands trembling.

  Had I been asleep standing up? The dream was slipping away from me, but some of it remained—a disturbing remnant.

  It wasn’t really me, I consoled myself, trying to will away the tremor in my limbs. It was just a dream.

  “I’m okay!” I called out. I waited another few seconds, and then reached for the shampoo.

  Ten minutes later I was standing in front of the mirror, a worn blue towel wrapped around me. My hair needed to be cut—it was getting too long. My skin looked healthy, despite the state of my mind. There was a vibrant glow spreading across my cheeks and the bridge of my nose. It had always been there, ever since I was a child. I spent too much time outdoors to ever become pale.

  My eyes were a well-guarded secret, evoking a calm, moss-green pond. No matter how many stones you tossed at it, you would never see the ripples. I liked that about my eyes, but my lips told the real story. I wasn’t sure how, but they only looked natural turned down. As soon as I tried to smile, the lie became apparent. I reached up, dropping the towel and revealing my body. I examined the fullness of my breasts, the slim muscles that stretched beneath the tautness of my golden skin. I thought about Nicholai’s hand brushing across my lip and then I tried to imagine it brushing lower, over the line of my collarbone, and lower, to lift the weight of my breasts into his palms. I leaned against the counter, my breath suddenly short.

  What the hell was wrong with me? He was trying so hard to help me, to keep to his rules. He had quit his job so that he didn’t overstep any professional boundaries. He had told me not to come to his clinic so that he could be more involved. So that he could be there for me in more ways than counsellor to client. He wanted to be my friend.

  I laughed breathlessly, shaking my head. I knew he wanted more than that. He didn’t make a secret of it. He wanted me, he just ... wished he didn’t.

  I shook my head again, sadness sinking into me. It didn’t matter. I pulled out the change of clothes Jean had given me: a pale-yellow shirt with hola written across the chest in black, blocky letters; there was also a pair of running shoes, plain black workout shorts, a change of underwear and a clean pair of socks. With each article I donned, I could feel my gratefulness toward her grow. She had known, instinctively, what I needed—had taken the time to worry about me and try to plan ahead for me. I needed to repay her somehow.

  I checked my phone before I stowed it in my pocket, seeing a new message.

  Call me,

  -Nic

  My earlier thoughts of him swam back in, pushing heat through my body. My hands were shaking when I clicked his number.

  “Hey,” he said, picking up almost immediately. “Where are you?”

  “At my friend’s house.” My voice was husky.

  He paused, drawing in a slow breath. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. Um ... are you okay?”

  He laughed. “If you’re not busy later this afternoon, my cousin is having a—”

  “Okay.”

  “A party,” he finished, humour lacing his tone. “Alright then, do you want me to pick you up?”

  “I can get a lift there if you text me the address”

  “I’ll see you then, Mika.” He hung up, and a second later, another text came through with the address.

  I was still staring at my phone when Jean knocked on the door again. I opened it and showed her my phone screen without saying anything.

  Her eyebrows inched up, and she flicked a look at my face. “If that’s a drop-off address for Duke, you’re about to get throat-punched.”

  “Harsh. Wow.” I wanted to laugh, but I felt as though I had run out of laughter for the day, like I had a certain quota I was allowed to use but it had already been depleted. “No, it’s from Nicholai. I’m supposed to go to his cousin’s party later.”

  “He’s checking up on you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Interesting ...” She grabbed my arm, hauled me out of the bathroom, and marched me to the kitchen. “Yo, Marc,” she pushed me onto the stool and then paused, turning toward Smith. “Can you play with that in your room? Just for a few minutes?”

  He grunted in reply, not even looking up from his tablet screen, though he did stand and shuffle out of the room. I thought his navigation was impressive, considering that he wasn’t watching where he was going.

  “Grey is meeting a guy later,” Jean announced, as soon as the room was clear.

  “A guy?” Marc asked, immediately straightening away from the oven. “Like ... a guy who isn’t Duke?”

  “She’s done with Duke.” Jean waved her hand dismissively.

  “How do you know that?” Marcus and I both asked at the same time.

  Jean pulled out her phone, searched for something, and then turned it to face us. It was a text conversation with Duke, though the conversation was entirely one-sided.

  Have you seen Grey?

  Where the fuck is Grey?

  I need to talk to her. Tell her to come see me.

  Jean. Where. The. Fuck. Is. Grey.

  Missed call.

  Missed call.

  Missed call.

  Don’t be a bitch.

  Missed call.

  Fine, you’re both bitches.

  Tell her I hope she got what she wanted, because she’s never getting this dick again.

  Sorry about the messages.

  Hey sis, how’s it going?


  Missed call.

  “Wow,” I muttered, scrolling through each message. Marcus shook his head and slapped a hunk of dough onto the lower counter between us, sprinkling some flour over it before rolling it out.

  “I don’t really talk to Duke,” Jean explained. “He just felt bad for harassing me about you, so now he’s pretending we have some kind of relationship. He’ll give up in a day or so.”

  “I’m sorry.” My head dipped down, my arms folding over the upper counter so that I could lean on it while I watched Marcus work.

  “Are you really done with him?” Marcus asked, pausing for a moment.

  I nodded. “I never really liked him—I just liked that he didn’t push to know anything about me, he never wanted me to talk, he never expected anything from me.”

  “Bullshit,” Jean cut in. “He wanted to fuck you.”

  “Yes, but nothing else. It was simple, I really needed simple.”

  “He’s an abusive asshole,” Jean countered. “He’s simple because he takes away your choices—but you’re supposed to have those choices. They’re not a burden, they’re yours by right. If you want to give them away, give them to someone safe. Someone who wants to help you. Someone like ...” She trailed off, a smug look on her face.

  “Who is he?” Marcus pressed, a smile starting to grow on his face, before it suddenly dropped off, and his eyebrows shot down. “He better not be any of Duke’s friends, Grey—”

  “The guidance councillor,” I interjected. “I mean, he was. He left, so he’s just Nicholai now.”

  Marcus stopped everything that he was doing, wiping his hands on the folded-over apron that was tied around his hips—I hadn’t even realised he was wearing one until then. “Mr. Fell?”

  “Yes,” I muttered, watching as he processed the information.

  Finally, he nodded, as though it made perfect sense. “There isn’t a girl at that school who wasn’t into that guy. I mean, there are two or three teachers there that are even younger than him, but they don’t look like he does. It should be illegal for people who look like that to work around hormonal teenagers. I knew girls who would make up issues just to be sent there. Lacey—you probably know her, she talks about you all the time—anyway, she was sent to the principal’s office for following Nicholai home. He was with his girlfriend at the time, who was this super hot blonde chick, studying to be a lawyer. The rumour goes that he was having sex with the hottie, Lacey was at the window watching, and Nicholai saw her. He called the cops, but Lacey lied and said she was there by accident. This happened three times, until she was issued a warning. That lawyer chick of Nicholai’s? She threatened to take Lacey’s parents to court.”

  I cringed, sinking further down towards the counter. “No wonder he kept asking if I was following him.”

  “Wait,” Jean interjected. “I forgot about his girlfriend.”

  “Maybe they’re not together anymore.” Marcus shrugged.

  “They are,” I admitted. I sounded miserable, which was pathetic, so I quickly straightened up and forced my tone back to normal. “But it doesn’t matter. He wants to help me, he wants to be friends with me. I think ... I think I want to be friends with him, too.”

  “How is that going to work?” Jean asked smugly. “I mean, with you two wanting to jump each other and everything.”

  “I pushed it, once. He kissed me. It made me back off—like he knew it would. I don’t think I could make anything happen with him, even if I wanted it to. He seems to have a defence for everything. A counter-move for each of mine. I hated him at first, because it was clear that he knew how my mind worked.”

  “I wish I had a person like that,” Jean admitted, playing with a pen on the counter. “Even just as a friend. Life wouldn’t feel so lonely then. It would have a little bit of meaning.”

  “I don’t have a person like that.” Marcus moved back to check the oven again. “But I’m pretty sure Amelia Ferretti’s boobs know how my mind works.”

  Jean grinned. “Amelia’s boobs know how everyone’s minds work. They’re like god. All-knowing and all-encompassing.”

  I laughed, trying to cast my mind to the girl they were talking about. I only received a fuzzy outline. Just a passing face in the halls, nobody that I had ever paid any attention to. Maybe I should have made an effort to socialise more, back when socialising had been easy, when people had clamoured to be friends with me, as though it were some sort of coveted social position. Now, I was worse than a disease. Not that I minded, because I had never really had friends like Marcus or Jean. Friends that would come and pick me up in the middle of the night from a diner. Friends who would blackmail me into staying with them for Thanksgiving, which was ...

  “Oh my god,” I laughed. “It’s Thanksgiving.”

  Jean laughed with me, throwing her arms around my shoulders. “Thanks for coming over, Grey.”

  Marcus winked at me. “As if I would ever not have enough ingredients for Thanksgiving dessert. We just needed a reason to get you here.”

  “But apparently this wasn’t the only Thanksgiving you were invited to,” Jean reminded me.

  “Wait, I’m going to Nicholai’s ... oh god. I can’t.” I jumped off the stool and started pacing around. “This is too much pressure.”

  “You’re just friends,” Marcus reminded me, pointing the rolling pin at me. “What does it matter?”

  “His girlfriend will be there.”

  Marcus cringed, and Jean grabbed my shoulders, turning me to face her. “So? Take a boy. Take Marcus. You’re free tonight, aren’t you, Marc?”

  “Great idea!” His smile was huge. “No need to be embarrassed with me on your arm, Grey. I’m a catch. I’m beautiful. Nicholai can’t complete with—”

  “Yeah he can,” Jean argued. “But at least Grey won’t feel awkward around his girlfriend. So, what do you say?” She directed the question toward me, giving my shoulders a gentle squeeze.

  “Okay,” I managed. “I mean, you don’t have to, but—”

  “Are you kidding?” Marcus slapped the rolling pin down onto the counter and walked over to us, nudging Jean out of the way and taking my hands. He bent down onto one knee, holding my hands up before his face.

  “Mika Grey, will you fake-girlfriend me for a day? Please? It would make me the happiest man alive.”

  “Okay,” I laughed.

  Getting ready for the party with Marcus was fun. Jean sat on the bed while Marcus rummaged through his closet, trying to find the right outfit. I had borrowed one of Jean’s dresses: a plain white sundress that she had pulled from a drawer, saying it was just my style. I changed from sneakers to flats, and combed my hair out until it tumbled down my back in tousled waves. Marcus wore a white shirt to match my white dress, along with a pair of jeans.

  I hugged Jean before we left, and she had whispered in my ear that there was a surprise in my backpack. I squeezed her, promising that I would text her later. She knew better than to try to force me to stay with her, and I appreciated that.

  I would figure something out.

  Somehow.

  “Why is there a blanket in your bag?” Marcus asked as I unzipped it. We were on the road, the bag between my knees.

  “In case I get cold at the party?” I framed my answer as a guess, shrugging my shoulders.

  “I brought a jacket for just such an occasion,” he replied smugly.

  “You’re such a great fake-boyfriend.” I reached across to take his hand, pulling it from the gearshift.

  He grinned at me, squeezing my hand. “I know. Thanks.”

  We pulled up to the address, and I tried to focus past the nervous feeling in my stomach. This was new territory: me and Nicholai meeting outside of school, on purpose. I smoothed down the dress and cast a hesitant smile toward Marcus as we walked toward the house. It was a simple two-story, red-brick place. I could hear music inside, and could smell the aroma of meat and roast vegetables.

  “Oh god, I’m starving,” Marcus groaned, reaching around
me to knock on the door. “I should probably help out with the cooking. I could even take over with the turkey and then they’ll have more time to enjoy their party.”

  “Don’t kidnap the turkey, Marcus.”

  I was saved from his response as the door swung open. The woman who had answered had a wide smile, warm brown eyes, and short, thick eyelashes. Her brown bangs fell to her eyebrows, she wore a denim skirt with a white silk top, and golden bracelets were stacked along her wrists. It all contrasted exotically with her deep brown skin.

  “Hi!” She looked from me to Marcus, and then back to me. For just a moment, she seemed to take me in, and then she pulled the door wide and yanked me into a surprisingly firm hug. “My name is Magdeline, but if you call me that, I’ll make up an equally horrible and biblical name for you, and also we’ll never be friends, ever. So, call me Mag! You must be Mika, and ... I’m sorry, I don’t know you’re name.”

  “Marcus,” he supplied, as Mag released me and pulled him into a hug.

  “So nice to meet you both.” Her smile never wavered, she looked genuinely happy. “Nic is out the back, come through, I’ll introduce you to the others.”

  I followed behind her, wondering how old she was and whether or not she was Nicholai’s cousin. She looked to be somewhere between my age and his—probably around twenty-two or twenty-three, so it was possible, although she didn’t really share his colouring, or any of his defining features.

  “This is Clay,” she announced, the second we came to the end of the hallway.

  I took in the space, first: it was simple, worn, comfortable. An open-plan kitchen and living space. Pictures littered the walls and children’s toys were shoved into the couch cushions. The sink was already piled with dishes, and a clock ticked happily above the stove, watching over the crowded space. The man standing at the sink was tall and built about the shoulders. He had a disarming smile and twinkling blue eyes, a shadow of a dark beard and close-cropped, dark hair.